In your dreams
I am in bed. I am asleep. And yet, quite incredibly, I’m doing all sorts of wonderful things. I am flying through the sky, with some other people. It’s rather groovy. Then we hit the ground with a nasty splat, and land in some sort of swamp on the outskirts of a frightfully middle-class Norfolk town – never knew such a thing existed there.
I am not as injured as the others. Their knees somehow appear to have been gnawed at like corn on the cob in the impact. I run off to find help and a telephone box, apparently not noticing the bright red shiny one which has been helpfully erected just beside the quagmire in which we landed.
I sort of get lost and end up pushing a half-eaten banana into a red post box. I waste time queuing to apologise to the ban behind the counter – it’s a sort of outdoor post office, rather like an ice-cream hatch, which is for some reason part of a small bus station. I apologise loudly, and am then peculiarly embarrassed when I notice that some people who I know have been within earshot of my gratuitous pleas for forgiveness from the postman.
Of course, it was all a dream – but a pretty cool one, right? I quite like the idea of posting a banana through the opening of a postbox – although that would never really happen. It could, I realise, be seen as symbolic – but it isn’t, I assure you.
Another dream I had. I am yet again in bed, asleep – this being a dream, yeah? – and this time walking about in my head. Get a moob on happens. I answer in a deep voice “I am a girl”. Or I answer in a shrill voice “I am a boy”. It is obvious that they are being idiotholes, and I am poking fun through the bars at them.
Maybe I strapped a giant papier mache sausage between my legs, for added irony. It could have been a real sausage, in fact, either raw or sizzled. Or a salami – one of those would’ve been better. Perhaps a parsnip, or a carrot (which is essentially a parsnip painted orange), or an aubergine would be more ethical – I wouldn’t want an innocent sausage dog (cos that’s what they make sausages out of, yeah?) to be slaughtered just for the purposes of my ridiculous jape.
It doesn’t matter about the accuracy of the details, because it will always be a great big pork pie. You see, that dream was never had. My dreams are always unpredictable post-modern surrealist things like the banana post box one. The didn’t even happen in real life. I wish I had done that – it would have been jolly fantabulous – but I didn’t.
Lots of regrets about how I handled that incident. I didn’t really take note of who those girls where, because I was so very bamboozled and shocked and that. I should have. This little round ball on which we live being so, well, little, it’s highly likely that our paths will cross again. And the alligator will be thinking, “oh, ha, this is the chap who I accused of having wobbly chest-mounted udders”, whilst I am none the wiser. It could have been anyone. At least I know that this person had no unusual features – a pair of enormous ears, for instance, cos I’d have noticed if they’d have been there, and I didn’t notice so they clearly weren’t there.
Mind you, I’m not completely rubbish at sudden on-the-spot funny improvisation. For instance, when asked for his views on footballer Mr Ronaldo’s £80,000,000 purchase by Real Madrid, my biology teacher simply said: “I’m sure it’s very nice for him.” Pathetic. I, on the other hand, made the sharp point that, with today’s exchange rate, £80,000,000 is probably worth only about £5. That’s all juicy and topical and I am a genius. It somehow produced a terrifying laugh which was probably a little fake but still…
I could, of course, have suggested that he needs the money to support his ice cream business. That would be like well clever. But, you readers don’t know what I’m talking about, because you haven’t come across Ronaldo Ices of Norfolk. Still, doesn’t matter, because I’ve got a lot of other Ronaldo-based material. Like the exchange rate thing. And that’s all.